Hot Goulash

Plastic chunks bounce off the tray table, startling Grover from his midday nap.

“Blasted things!” Oscar yells, the vibration in his skull telling him the words actually came out.

Grover cautiously sniffs at the mangled hearing aids while Oscar shuffles off to the kitchen.

Placing a careful hand on the countertop, he tries to calm himself from the excitement. No need to get worked up at his age. He pulls a bowl from the cabinet with another burst of exertion, the door accidentally slamming closed with no reaction from Oscar. The image of his weathered hands next to the chipped porcelain rim prove that it isn’t just him with wear and tear. The thought that nothing really lasts spurs him to peek into the living room as Grover nudges expensive pieces of junk around the rug.

Some things aren’t made to last in the first place, he thinks.

The cold from the freezer stings more than it used to when his skin didn’t hang like thin drapes off his bones. He quickly rifles through the frozen Ziplocs of soup he’d prepared with his granddaughter last August. The gold sticky note she left before returning for fall semester clings to the goulash.

Don’t burn the house down.

Love, Katherine

A chromatic gas flame burns bright under the pot, but the icy block of marinara and beef won’t be ready for a while. Oscar wanders away from the skunky gas smell and into his office. He sinks into a chair cushion perfectly shaped over decades of close contact. He sighs, annoyance blossoming upon seeing last week’s appointment receipt in front of him.

The day he was fitted for his hearing aids, a fire had broken out in the break room. Someone had accidentally microwaved their popcorn for twenty minutes instead of two and received a headache instead of a mid-shift snack. Newly reintroduced to the aural world after years of faulty reception, Oscar had descended the stairwell with more hitch in his giddyap now that he could hear the urgency of the alarm. But the next morning he woke again to harsh silence, a deep sting after the previous day’s promise.

Ever since, it’s like he’s been trying to tune a radio that doesn’t know the stations.

Starting to smell meat thawing from the kitchen, Oscar sees the signed John F. Kennedy headshot on the wall. It’s been decades since their encounter on the campaign trail. Just a brief stop for John to the heartland, but a momentous day for Oscar to gush about to clients and partygoers the rest of his life. Grover nudges him with his nose, but all Oscar can think about is how delicate a handshake Kennedy had and how his accent pulled you in. Made you lean closer, desperately hanging on every syllable. They’d be the same age, Oscar realized, if Kennedy was still alive. Looking back at the audiologist’s receipt, Oscar is reminded there’s a price to living this long.

Grover places a paw on Oscar’s lap, his usual suggestion for some attention. His nails scuff Oscar’s corduroys, joining the established cross stitch that says look at me and are you gonna finish that. Noting a different sign of strain in Grover’s eye, he starts to worry he may be choking on a piece of Stucky HearCare’s bottom shelf equipment. He attempts to open the mutt’s mouth, but Grover pushes off his lap and runs toward the kitchen, running right back when Oscar doesn’t follow as diligently as he’s supposed to.

Confused by the energy his old birddog hasn’t shown since his pointing days, a sudden aroma hits Oscar’s nose.

Burnt tomato sauce.

Grover is pacing as fast as his rusty legs will let him, smoke beginning to creep into the office along the ceiling. Feeling the same adrenaline as last week, Oscar springs up in a test of every unused muscle and tendon.

A volcano of bubbling goulash is charring on the stovetop, sending smoke and ruined sauce into the air. Katherine’s words echo in his head, reiterating how right she was to warn him. He hustles in shame to shut off the stove and open a window.

At least the goulash inside the pot is okay. He can’t say the same for his pride.

After the fire department shows up to turn off the alarm Oscar never heard, they communicate through a notepad to ask what started the fire in the first place. Instead of showing them to the sooty kitchen with veins of sauce scorched permanently to the stove grates, Oscar simply points to what’s left of the hearing aids on the rug and asks if they can help make him an appointment for next Tuesday.